Heart of Gold
by Lazarus de Medci IV
Summary: This is what happens after Eric's Capture! Sequal to GDI, NOD, ETC., Borderline PG13/R (Swearing)
1. No Fear

Author's Note: Good! You made it! If you didn't, go back and read GDI, NOD, ETC, first! I'm going to be writing it in a split format to make the story more interesting; each chapter will chronicle both Eric's stay at the Black Hand POW camp, and how life goes on without him in the rest of the world  
  
Somewhere in rural southern Texas…  
  
After Duck dodging countless GDI recon teams, the slavers finally came home; this was the slavers last run, end Eric was the only prisoner they took… this time. It was 7:30 A.M. when they landed; Eric was wearing navy blue Carharts, black leather gloves, the fingers cut out, and a white T- Shirt.  
  
His hair retained it's natural windswept shape; though it was greasy, and becoming matted after not being washed for 2 weeks; and, needless to say, smelled strongly of bodily odors.  
  
A couple of NOD soldiers walked behind him, loosely holding their guns; Eric could've gone Bruce Lee on them, but just then an obelisk came into sight. They came to a vast field of jet-black rock; a slender layer of dust covered the entire field; a coalfield, no doubt. Eric could see the sun rising in the distance.  
  
The camp foreman looked over the files of their last prisoner; it looked like this  
  
Name: Simmons, Eric  
  
Age: 23  
  
DOB: 12/12/07  
  
Hair: Dark Sandy Blonde  
  
Eyes: Blue  
  
Blood: AB+  
  
Height: '6 "1  
  
Weight: 168  
  
Injuries: N/A  
  
Tattoos: N/A  
  
Scars: Long; across face  
  
Force Taken from: Omega (Formerly Beta)  
  
Place of Capture: Inner City Huston (Out of battle)  
  
Relocation facility: XIX  
  
Kill count: 12  
  
Other Notes:  
  
Scrawled at the bottom were notes:  
  
Knows no fear, appears to be proficient in several types of martial arts  
  
"Wait," said the foreman to Eric "Come here"  
  
"Whatdya want?" he asked  
  
"Would you consider yourself a business man?" the foreman started "One who is adept in his bargaining skills?"  
  
"I guess," said Eric, passively "Why?"  
  
"I'm about to make you an offer you can't refuse" he began "What if I were to offer you the 'short shift' only work on Saturdays and Sundays, 10-12, better conditions, better hours, usually better whether, only twice a week; and greatly improved ration sizes for both you and your cellmate; we usually offer this package to people who provide us with valuable information…"  
  
"My mouth is shut," intervened Eric "and I intend to keep it that way"  
  
"Shut up, and let me finish my sentence," said the foreman, quite curtly. "Says here you're a kung-fu fighter" he started doing some mock martial arts moves and making bizarre hi-ya noises, as if dancing to some weird 70s music.  
  
"Yeah?" asked Eric, waiting for his ultimate point  
  
"Teach me some of that… karate… or whatever it is that you do," he said slowly  
  
"I don't think someone like you could learn my trade," said Eric, trying not to be a braggadocio  
  
"Is that a no, meat?" replied the foreman; he was determined to get what he wanted, but tried to make it look like his patience was wearing thin  
  
"Ay, uh, well, that is to say," stuttered Eric "it's just that there are so many types of martial arts, do you want to be able to fly through the air, knock someone's block off, or do a handstand to chopper kick, or a WHAM, CRASH, BOOM!"  
  
"That last one sounds quite tantalizing," he said on the sly  
  
"Then Freestyle Kenpo is the way for you, my friend!" he almost shouted in a sales pitch type tone  
  
"Then it's a deal… Meat" he replied  
  
  
  
Laura had purchased (not rented) in cash (not credit) a good sized apartment, and was now living generously off a little nest egg she had stashed away; still looking for a job however.  
  
It was 23:00 hours (or about 11:00 P.M, as they say) Laura had grown tired of watching YET ANOTHER movie miniseries called "get your dog's face out of my ass" … But with a show with that name, I'd be willing to bet you'd get tired of it in a hurry too!  
  
Laura turned in; she slowly disrobed, and slid into bed; she stayed awake for several hours; something was clawing at the back of her mind (Probably an escaped weasel). It was Eric; finally knowing what it was that kept her awake put her asleep instantly into a deep sleep; err, REM sleep, I think… the kind where you dream.  
  
Laura saw Eric marching along a great rocky catwalk, amongst several prison guards, over a pit of lava and fire… this place HAD to be hell. A man was being beaten brutally by one of the men in heavy red and black armor; he had out a club, and was clocking him in the head; Eric ran to save him; but he only got further away; all at once, the rocky ledge collapsed, and Eric was swallowed by the flames.  
  
Laura awoke with a start… in a cold sweat.  
  
1 "He who fights with demons, beware, lest he thereby become a demon"  
  
-Fredrich Nietzschè 


	2. Carson Leugabell

It had been a day of roll calls, checks, and ridiculously difficult drills; followed, one would expect, by intense punishment. That night, a guard ushered him to his cell  
  
"Dinner in 5, meat" said the burly prison guard  
  
Eric walked over to the bed; where his cellmate was seated; he was 5'9" with a considerable build, 220, he had jet-black hair spilling out from the crest of his head; he sat idly picking at a hangnail; on his dog tags, he could sort of see his last name, a long word, beginning with an 'L'  
  
Eric sat next to him, all he had to say was "Last guy here got the top bunk, now it's my turn. You get the bottom."  
  
Eric just nodded; he stuck out his hand "Eric Simmons"  
  
The man just stared at him for a minute before finally reaching out to him "Carson Leugabell"  
  
The cart came around with dinner; slots in the bars opened up, and the attendant grabbed 2 large (That is, compared to the ones on the top) plates and shoved them through  
  
"Big rations tonight…" commented Carson "…Damn, you told, didn't you?"  
  
"Told what?" asked Eric  
  
"GDI secrets, stupid" said Carson, narrowing his eyes  
  
"What? No, you see," he started "I offered to teach the foreman Kenpo Karate"  
  
"You WHAT?" he said, in disbelief "You fucking idiot!"  
  
"What?" said Eric "You jealous that I get better shifts and better rations without giving GDI away?"  
  
"No, dumbass!" he shouted "We brawl every night; foreman always gets the crap knocked out of him, but NOW…"  
  
"Relax," said Eric "Takes at LEAST 2 years to earn the mentality to kick ass with it, a moron like that, probably even longer"  
  
"Uh huh," he replied "What happens if we're STUCK in this hellhole for longer then that?"  
  
"What, you wanna learn the martial arts?" asked Eric  
  
"Might be nice…" said Carson "…Shit, that'd be awesome!"  
  
"Wanna learn the best way to fight against Kenpo, right?" asked Eric  
  
"Hell," said Carson, throwing his shoulders back "Spare me the frigging' techno babble, eh?"  
  
"Right," said Eric "Seems to me you wanna learn some traditional Judo"  
  
"Dude," cried Carson "What did I say about the damn techno babble?"  
  
"Sorry"  
  
  
  
General Wesly chewed nervously on the end of his pen; not caring to look over his papers at the man standing in front of him  
  
"Uhh… sir?" asked a nervous private  
  
"What do you want, boy?" shot back Wesly "Got something for me, or here to waste my precious time?"  
  
"News, sir" he replied  
  
"… … … … Well, don't just stand there, lay it on me, kid!" he shouted after a long silence  
  
He jumped "Uhh, yeah, err, yes sir, the, ah, thing, mister, err, the, umm…" he stuttered  
  
"Well," said Wesly, leaning foreword in his desk "Spill it! I don't bite… very hard"  
  
"Guy with the, Umm," he started "Major Sam Simmons to see you"  
  
"Was that so hard?" asked Wesly "See him in, oh, and by the way… you might at LEAST call me sir"  
  
"Err, sir, yes sir, sir," he said, walking backwards out of the office  
  
Sam walked into the office  
  
"Hello, Gene"  
  
"Hello, Sam" replied Wesly "What brings you here"  
  
"I'll be brief," said Sam "The Waco Militia is offering to relieve you of your duties in searching for the NOD POW camp"  
  
"What's the catch?" asked Wesly, not missing a beat  
  
"We need things," said Sam, looking at a long list "About 4 mammoth tanks, 8 medium tanks, 16 humvee units, maybe a dozen titans, 40 wolverines, enough Disc Grenades, field medic kits, and M-16s to outfit an infantry regiment of 240… and of course ammunition to go with it"  
  
Wesly laughed "And who, pray tell, is going to bankroll all this?"  
  
"My partner," said Sam "Sir Wayne"  
  
"All right," said Wesly "Your bill comes to… $72 Million"  
  
"Hmm…" said Sam "That's 12 over our budget… without ammo?"  
  
"That IS without ammo, Sam" said Wesly  
  
"Well then… can't you give me some kind of discount?" asked Sam  
  
"That IS including the biggest discount I can give you… Tell me Sam, Are your men trained?" asked Wesly  
  
"By me myself" said Sam, proudly  
  
"Oh, by YOU?" said Wesly, sarcastically  
  
"Gene," alleged Sam "Do you not forget I was the super spy that located Kane during the 1st Tiberian war? Recon is my specialty,"  
  
"No cash, no stuff," said Wesly, leaning back in his chair "That's the way it works"  
  
"Well, I HAVE got 1 more person I could ask," pondered Sam  
  
"Who might that be?" curiously asked Wesly  
  
"C.J. Bonner"  
  
"THE C.J. Bonner?" asked Wesly "Trillionaire president of Oilcow trucking?"  
  
"That's the one," said Sam, as he got up and left  
  
Wesly scratched his head in total disbelief  
  
"Nobody believes a liar"  
  
-Aesop 


	3. Strategery

It was another dreary Thursday morning; Carson got to sleep in, all the others were ushered out into the coalfield, armed with picks. Eric was escorted personally by a Black Hand guard out past the field, to a large disused barn; he opened the door, and to Eric's surprise, he found mats, bags, treadmills, Stairmasters, bench presses, weight sets, and in the middle, a giant boxing ring.  
  
They pushed their way past several recruits in black jumpsuits doing pushups, punching drills, wrestling, or whatever. He couldn't see the loft, for it was enclosed by a long wooden fence-like wall.  
  
"Park it here, meat," said the foreman, seated on a stool in the ring  
  
Eric climbed into the ring, and stepped over to the foreman "Lesson 1," he said in a wizened oriental sounding tone  
  
"What?" asked the foreman; they were both still in work clothes  
  
"Throw us some gloves," Eric said to a drill sergeant, who was overseeing tome recruits  
  
He looked angrily back at them; his order barking had been interrupted; but he bent down over a footlocker, and threw them 2 pairs of gloves.  
  
"Uhh…" said Eric "Thanks… I think…"  
  
"You gonna teach me ju-jitsu, or what?" snapped the foreman  
  
"Kenpo Karate," he corrected, fastening his gloves  
  
"Whatever"  
  
"First, you need to know the Kenpo fighting stance… on second thought, show me yours" said Eric  
  
The foreman stuck both his fists up by his perpetual scowl  
  
"Ha!" said Eric. He performed a spinning sidekick, and with a great deal of effort and control, stopped it just before it smashed into the foreman's solar plexus. "That's weak. NOW let me show you the Kenpo stance"  
  
Eric drew his feet out into the long, well set stance, one hand guarding his torso, which was turned in sync with his feet, the other, a respectable distance from his face, not in a fist, but fingers still cautiously coiled around his palm.  
  
After several minutes of looking back and forth, the foreman followed in suit.  
  
"Now you're getting it,"  
  
  
  
The room was on the 3rd floor of one of the few buildings left standing that high in Waco, TX. The room was dark, and boarded off; a GDI sniper hung out the window and picked off a NOD patrol; he was lying on top of his buggy, basking in the afternoon Texas sun, apparently asleep… for good, now.  
  
Cpt. Masterson was gathered around a table with high-ranking soldiers; as he had only 1 officer left: Lt. Barney Kapp, who was standing over Masterson's shoulder. For a while, there was silence.  
  
"Shouldn't we be coming up with new strategery?" asked 1 soldier  
  
Author's Note: "Strategery" was the word President Bush chose to wrap up his presidential debate (Al Gore's was "Lock-Box") on Saturday Night Live  
  
"What's there to strategize?" asked Masterson "We've got little more than a dozen men against about 800 NOD troops; ain't no strategy to get us out of this one!"  
  
Silence once more  
  
"Sir," said Barney "Look," he pointed to a phone, half covered in plaster from a hole in the ceiling  
  
"Think it still works?" asked Masterson, leaning back in his chair  
  
"Only 1 way to find out," said Barney, strutting over to the phone. He pulled it out from under the rubble. He picked it up. Bingo; Dial tone. His large, calloused, nervous fingers dialed the number he had seen written on the cover a leather day-planner in Masterson's office  
  
"Please state your business," started a male receptionist  
  
"Umm," said Barney, guessing they were military "Can I speak to your commander?"  
  
"Hold please"  
  
…Silence…  
  
"Lt. Colonel Doug MacPherson, Limbo squadron, New Orleans, can I help you?"  
  
"You, uh, know Captain Roy Masterson?" posed Barney  
  
"CAPTAIN Masterson?" he asked "Izze there? Put the sonuvabitch on!"  
  
"Hello?" said Masterson, taking the phone from Barney  
  
"Masterson," he said "It's Lt. Colonel MacPherson!"  
  
"Sir?" asked Masterson "Our boys in Beta squadron, Waco, could use a wee bit of support… that it to say… reinforcements…" he began to explain  
  
"Loyalty, Fidelity, Honor, Courage, Justice"  
  
-The Hwarang Code 


	4. The Sportin' Art

It was just after dinner; guards came by and unlocked the cells; 1 by 1, all the men were lined up single file, in an orderly fashion, Eric, his cell by the door, was 1st in line; somewhere along the lines of this, Carson had disappeared. They were ushered across the coalfield, and into the barn at the edge of the enormous barbed wire fence.  
  
Carson was already in the ring; he was without boxing gloves, as was the foreman, situated in the other corner, as so, without gloves.  
  
"Hey, new guy," came a voice from behind Eric, he turned around.  
  
"Arnold?" he began "Arnold Rodgers?"  
  
"Well, Eric Simmons! I'll be damned!" said the prisoner "Better get up there and coach him"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Carson," Arnold replied, "Pretty much goes without saying you're his new coach"  
  
"Oh," said Eric "Of course"  
  
He stepped up to the turnbuckle, and leaned in next to Carson, who was seated on a short stool  
  
"Hey Carson," said Eric "You have a particular fighting style?"  
  
"Damn straight" said Carson  
  
"Well?"  
  
"The sportin' art" said Carson, merrily  
  
"That would be.?" replied Eric  
  
"Pugilism!" shouted Carson  
  
"Boxing?" inquired Eric  
  
"Not JUST boxing," corrected Carson "Bare-knuckle boxing. Pops had a poker buddy by the name of Sullivan. John Sullivan, I think, quite a pugilist,"  
  
"Cool," said Eric, giving Carson the thumbs-up  
  
"Alright," said an officer, standing in the middle, "Let's get this party started!"  
  
A group of men and women, young and old, dressed in street clothes and doboks, were seated in one of the balconies overlooking the giant 4-teired dojang of Rio-Grande Martial Arts; a man Albert's age, wearing a 3-piece suit, whose name was Martin Kayline, spoke first  
  
"I think it pretty much goes without saying, with both the Simmons and the Masons gone, the first order of business is to put some people in charge!"  
  
Then a black man in his early 20's, wearing a dobok with a blue belt, chimed in  
  
"I nominate Miss Hennessey!"  
  
Several others followed up  
  
"Good idea!"  
  
"Yeah, I second that"  
  
The vote was unanimous. Judy Hennessey sat foreword in her seat; she was a dedicated student, one of only 8 of Rio Grande's over 7,000 students to be enrolled in Grandmaster Simmons' Shao-Lin program, she had been the one who organized the meeting, and was the 1st one there that morning.  
  
She was wearing the finely done patchwork white with black trim dobok, standard for 1st Dan black belts and higher, and a black belt with 3 stripes, aside from the Simmons, and with Jack Mason gone, the highest ranking student in the school. Aged 34, believe it or not, with long orange hair, and your ordinary, average, run-of-the-mill, drop-dead gorgeous figure.  
  
"All right then," she started "Now, for someone to be second"  
  
Martin looked back at the black man  
  
"I nominate Mister Palmer"  
  
"Sounds good to me," said Judy  
  
There were several other sounds of approval; unanimous again.  
  
"Well, thank you kindly," said a surprised Harvey Palmer "But. I'm not even a black belt"  
  
"Desperate times call for desperate measures" joked Judy "Now the second order of business is to get some instructors set up for some of the vacant classes"  
  
Everyone spoke at once, and they were all swallowed by the noise.  
  
"Early to bed, Early to rise, Fish all day, and make up lies!" -Herb Shriver 


	5. Only One Way to Find Out

The foreman painstakingly slid back into the Kenpo fighting stance, Carson, on the other hand, looked a little worried.  
  
"It's just a stance, Carson," said Eric "Don't let it intimidate you"  
  
Carson nodded. He moved in swiftly with a jab-cross-uppercut combination, the foreman was moved a little, definitely in pain. Carson seized the opportunity, and followed up with 4 vicious reverse punches, one after the other. The foreman was thrown against the ropes, Carson wound his arm up for a deathblow; then. *POW* he was down for the count. The prisoners cheered. V for Victory.  
  
Later that night.  
  
Carson hadn't taken a scratch, and was feeling quite pleased with himself.  
  
"So," said Carson "When the hell you plan on teachin' us Judo?"  
  
"Us?" inquired Eric  
  
"Hell yes," said Carson "Me 'n Smitty"  
  
"Smitty?"  
  
"Yeah! Smitty Raymond; he wants to learn too" laughed Carson "You didn't think I'd go alone didja?"  
  
"Well," said Eric "I had planed on it, but."  
  
"Hell, yeah!' shouted Carson "Then it's settled: meet us in the loft, in the old hay room, during lunch hour; 11:30 to 12:30"  
  
"Geeze," said Eric "This'za frigging prison camp, and we get an HOUR lunch break"  
  
"Oh, god damn, you pansy!" said Carson, sealing the deal  
  
The old woman began to suck on her cigarette  
  
"Are you single?" she asked  
  
"That's kind of personal, Mrs. Hansen" replied Laura  
  
"Well, just answer the damn question," she said uncouthly "Are you single?"  
  
"Well." She had to think, really, and in her thoughts, she thought of Eric; he was disappeared to god-only-knows where, and even so, was he really her lover? I mean, it wasn't official, after all, that was the big thing, but they knew all each other's deepest, darkest secrets. and boy, what a kisser that man was, but. oh. what if he never ever came back? Then what? Was she to remain an old maid forever? That's when it became a choice between devotion and versatility. She thought of an old movie she had seen once with her mother: Castaway, with Tom Hanks and Helen Hunt; after the guy had been gone 4 years she had remarried and had a 3-year-old kid, and to the guys DENTIST of all people! I don't care what the other characters said about her being pressured by the world around her, that woman was an s-l-u- t slut! Then it was decided, she would await his return. but. cripes, but what would Eric want her to do? Eric was an old fashioned guy, he would say 'Laura, I may not be back for 10 years, hell, I might even not be back PERIOD! Laura. go. date other men' wait. other men? She had never even dated Eric! So then dating other men would be no problem. but. oh, geeze. she had left Eric with a memory of anger and hatred. which he was probably getting plenty of. damnit, she owed him something. but staying his maiden? What would people think? Hell with it, she would. but then. what happens in bed? Her lost love plagues her there? She. perhaps. screams out his name in the middle of the night? But. why. he had dare do this to her?! Put her through such PAIN and MISERY??? Well then, we would come to a compromise; she could date other men, but break it off should it become to involved. one problem, however. would she have the willpower to do that? There was only one way to find out. ".Yes, actually, I am,"  
  
"I could hook you up, girl" she said, "My grandson is one studly looking guy, you could at least check him out, I'll send him up to your place such time"  
  
"That's ok," said Laura. in spite of her earlier agreement "I'll just."  
  
"You'll do no such thing!" she said, not even knowing what the hell came next  
  
"Allright, you do that then,"  
  
"Carpe Diem!" -Greek Proverb 


	6. Guts

After lunch, the NOD soldiers were doing drills, as nobody was working. Eric was up in the loft waiting, it was blanketed in light blue training mats, and sure as rain, Carson came up the ladder; but he was followed by a tall, lanky man who's tags read "Raymond"; and there was another one, a face Eric was sure he had seen before his tags identified him as "Rodgers".  
  
"Who's this other guy?" Eric asked Carson  
  
"Don't tell me you've forgotten ME, Etcetera!" he said stepping fore "Tell me you REMEMBER Arnold Rodgers!"  
  
Eric smiled, and shook his hand "Ah, Arnold," he said "I see you're not dead. yet"  
  
"Eric," interrupted Carson "They take roll at 1400, so step it up!  
  
Eric proceeded to explain that judo was based on the Japanese art of Kendo, which Eric could teach them, if he had some wooden tai-chi swords. He told them that it was based on about 15% kicks, 35% hand strikes, and 50% grappling; so it was quite a bit like professional wrestling, save the scripts, the bogus blood, and the melodramatics. They did some kicking drills, hand drills, went over various stances, and some line drills; finally, Smitty had to take a break. Over at the window he heard the guards talking.  
  
"Rodgers, Raymond, Leugabell, and Simmons are all missing," said one of the guards  
  
"Well then scour the damn base," said the foreman "And bring 'em to me"  
  
"Yes sir,"  
  
Arnold Rodgers sat them all on the derelict end of the rafters in the loft, where the entrance was, and people sometimes just hung out, pulled out his waterproof deck of lucky cards, and quickly dealt a game of 'guts', a type of poker. Soon after he was finished, the guard found them  
  
"Foreman wants to see you fruit nuts," he said  
  
They all followed him down, and explained to the foreman that they were only playing cards, and it would not happen again. In addition, 'meat' profusely apologized.  
  
"A'ight, Y'all got me here, now would ya mind tellin' me what the Sam- hill is goin' on here?"  
  
"Well," said Sam "I just wanted to chat, Mr. Bonner"  
  
"Chat? I don't know who the hell you are!" retorted C. J. Bonner  
  
"Sam Simmons," they shook hands "Ah, MAJOR Sam Simmons, Retired. then un- retired"  
  
"I see"  
  
"You have any kids?" asked Sam  
  
"I do," he said "I got's 3 critters of my own" Sam could tell he was beginning to relax "My daughter, Carla, well, she's 17, my son, Jim, he's 20, and sole heir to the Bonner fortune, should anything UNfortunate happen to yours truly, weighing in at 23 years old, my son Marc!" he gave out a belly-laugh  
  
"Marc Bonner," said Sam "You don't say? My son, Eric, has told me quite a bit about marc, they're quite good friends, I hear"  
  
"Is that so?" he replied; C. J. and Sam talked for hours on end, before Sam finally asked him this:  
  
"I am in need of cash"  
  
"At what amount, my friend?" asked C. J.  
  
"Around 100 million" said Sam  
  
"That's a hefty load," said C. J. "What d'y'all need it for?"  
  
"Military equipment" said Sam "To outfit the Waco Militia"  
  
"I tell you WHAT!" said C. J. "That ain't but pocket change for a fella like me! 'Whom' do I make the check out to?"  
  
"Only the good die young" -Entertainer's Proverb 


	7. Damn Fine Honor

Eric trudged across the coalfield, where his imprisoned compatriots were working; he didn't bother to wave or anything, but a few of the men smiled as he passed, he was with them in spirit; it was another dull, dismal Thursday, Eric remained bored out of his mind.  
  
Eric thought intently about all the people who were wondering where the hell he was, as he gingerly dusted the coal dust off of his boots. He finally came to the barn where the fights were held; he proceeded to the ring. Eric had no sooner begun to climb through the ropes when a boot struck him across the eyes and the bridge of his nose.  
  
"You little cocksucker!" shouted the foreman, as Eric struggled back up and into the ring, bruises forming around his eyes "If I don't start winning, there's gonna be hell to pay!"  
  
"Patience, my son" Eric said in an oriental voice, as the world around him faded back into focus  
  
"Don't give me that bullshit, meat," growled the foreman angrily "Just show me some techniques"  
  
Eric did as he was told, and did some blocking drills with the foreman: he was shown pretty much every block there is; the front block, the rising block, the low block, the wedging block, the cross block, the swinging twin forearm block, inner and outer forearm blocks... the list goes on and on.  
  
Finally there came the call for the prisoners to go back to their cells, the foreman looked at Eric as he walked away, and shouted after him  
  
"If I don't see results soon, your ass is grass!"  
  
Eric was ushered to his cell, where Carson was standing against the wall vigorously shadow-sparring... Eric thought it looked like Carson was still getting his ass kicked.  
  
"What the hell does he know?" asked Carson in a monotone voice, without stopping his barrage of dynamic punches  
  
"Blocks," Eric stated, wiping the sweat off his face "He'll play a pretty defensive fight"  
  
"Any that would break one o' those godamn holds?"  
  
"A few," said Eric "Why, you plan on using them?" Carson dropped his hands  
  
"Well, shit, you never know!"  
  
The NOD buck private standing guard near where the GDI forces may have been hiding... however...  
  
It was quiet... too quiet...  
  
...Then, a quiet humming grows louder...  
  
*TING, TING, TING, TING, TING, TING, TING, THWAP THAP THWAP*  
  
Several Orcas passed overhead, including the one who had just gunned down a lone soldier, there were 6 in all, and they traveled in an extended diamond formation, flying around 80 feet off the ground, just barely underneath NOD radar, and probably didn't show up when they pulled up to land; Captain Masterson and Lieutenant Kapp stood on the roof of which the squadron leader chose to land upon, a particularly savage looking Orca.  
  
The cockpit opened, and a hand helped a body climb out of the aircraft, hiding the 39 skulls on the side marking dogfight victories underneath the name of the pilot: "Doug MacPherson"  
  
"Lieutenant Colonel MacPherson, sir, it's a damn fine honor to see you again"  
  
"As with you, Captain Masterson," said Lt. Colonel MacPherson; he had the appearance of death itself; his dark green Kevlar jumpsuit with the name "MacPherson" rumpled up on his breast pocket, his helmet was the same dull shade of olive, with chrome grooves where it had been skimmed by bullets; his tinted visor hid his eyes, and he chewed menacingly on an unlit cigar.  
  
GDI forces were crouched around the edge of the building, waiting to scrag anyone who dared take a shot at them.  
  
"To the chase," Masterson said "Most of their forces have been diverted to Huston, so all we need is for you to take out their air force, and their radio relay post, and we'll finish it for ya"  
  
MacPherson bent down to tie his boot; boy, did he need new laces; and he began to speak in acceptance of his mission, when a bullet whizzed right over him, and ripped Masterson's hat off his head; he dropped to the ground; a lance corporal with a bazooka rose to the occasion, and fired at the first sign of movement; the explosion sent down a huge piece of concrete with a black-hand sniper clinging on for dear life as he plummeted 14 stories to his death.  
  
MacPherson looked at Barney helping Captain Masterson to his feet, and saw that there was no time to waste; he removed his cigar, and let out an ear splitting whistle, and jogged to his Orca, as his men did the same. The blue flame from the takeoff turbines bathed them in a hellish glow as they rose to perform a noble service.  
  
Death to NOD.  
  
"Programming Windows applications is like nailing jello to the ceiling... Easy with the right kind of nails" -Ivor Horton 


End file.
